Sometimes an undeniable urge will come upon a horse, and no matter where he is or what he’s otherwise doin, he’s got to satisfy it even if it means momentarily disobeyin his cowboy – or, in my case now, bucket gal – to get ’er done.
For example, if your nose itches, you got to scratch it. And I mean now. If you got to stop and pee, you got to stop and pee. Even if you got to stop more than once, then start again, then walk around a bit, then try again, in order to find the perfect peein spot. If you got to drop and roll… well, you should try hard not to do it when you’re bein rode, because that’s rude horse manners (unless you’re Coors Light, as I told about in this here tale). But if the urge comes upon you to roll, such as directly after you’ve been showered or bathed by your person, or if there’s mud and your urge tells you to lay down in it, or whatever else the horse urge may be, to the urge a horse must yield.
I would never have imagined a person could have urges. I do my best not to think about people as much as I can, especially County Island people and their ridiculous ways which run contrary to most everything I know from the ranch.
But today, right about when I’d started to believe nothin interestin was ever gonna happen around the County Island again, it’s been so bored and same-like here lately, it happened. I saw a person get an urge. Here’s what happened.
While I was bein brushed, a people-car done pulled up across the road from our little horse-corral, where people-cars sometimes do, for whatever reasons that don’t matter to a horse. And a man got out, which also don’t matter to a horse. And the man walked around the car, and opened the back of it, which I guess to describe it to you would be like openin the saddle pack bags of the car, if it had ‘em. And though the sun was in my eyes, I squinted to see him, mostly because the bucket gal was squintin to see him, as if seein him mattered, ‘cause maybe he was lingerin more than most people do that stop there.
And then, standin there along the side of the road, next to his people-car, out in the open under the big bright sun, the man done pulled his pants down, quick, with the same kind of urgentness a horse gets when it strikes.
Don’t worry. What comes next ain’t as bad as whatever you’re thinkin, or I wouldn’t be tellin it. But I’ll bet you and me were thinkin the same thing.
The bucket gal retrieved her telephone that lives in her pocket, which also takes pictures like what I show y’all sometimes of my own, and it’s called a eye-phone I reckon because it see things with some kinda telephone eye and then that’s how people see a picture of a thing the eye-phone saw. And that’s all any horse knows about that. Anyhow. Her eye-phone looked at the man and took a bunch of pictures of him, “just in case,” she said to me. She also muttered that if you’re gonna stand out in front of our corral and pull your pants down, you’re gonna get photographed. So, there’s a word to the wise, right there.
Mercifully, the man had on tiny short pants under his long pants. And then he got another pair of longer short pants out from his people-car, and he pulled them up over his tiny short pants.
And then, he walked back over to the front of his people-car, and he got in it, and he drove away. But not in the direction he was originally headin. He done turned around and went the other way, away from us, and far out of sight. I was glad about that, and so was the bucket gal. I myself had half a fearful thought that maybe he was about to go barenekkid joggin. You did, too, didn’t ya?
But does a horse even want to know what that was all about? Likely not, I say. And now I am done thinkin about it. I’d advise you to be, too.